


Out the Door

by Visinata



Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2019, Gryphon wound, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post wayward son but no real spoilers, injured vampire, simon snow taking care of Baz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21679606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Visinata/pseuds/Visinata
Summary: Baz is injured, Simon is taking care of him, no one is happy.(But they still love each other. They’re just terrible communicators!)Written for the Carry on Countdown 2019 Day 11: Angst
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1563961
Comments: 30
Kudos: 135
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2019





	1. Chapter 1

BAZ

If only 15 year old Baz could see me now. I’m lying in Snow’s bed, shirt off, trousers unzipped. Simon is bending over me, running his hands over my chest and stomach, grunting occasionally in concentration. This is exactly where I’ve been trying to get back to for months. _Get back to—_ that’s a laugh. I was never here to begin with. I’ve been trying to _get_ here. Period. I squeeze my eyes closed tighter. This _feels_ like it’s farther than we’ve ever gotten before.

I imagine he’s just a breath away from closing the distance to my mouth for one of the intoxicating kisses I can only barely remember, that if I open my eyes, he’ll be staring down at me with pupils blown, hair sticking in sweaty curls to his forehead. Maybe he’ll even be smiling at me.

I know I shouldn’t open my eyes. I’ll just be disappointed. But I’m a constant disappointment to myself, so I do. Or rather, I try to. They’re crusted shut from the blood that ran down my forehead and pooled before it dried. It seems Snow thought the head wound was less pressing than the mean slash running from my chest to my lower abdomen.

I suppose that makes sense. The gryphon was probably venomous.

I give it another go and manage to pry one eye open this time, then the other.

Simon is not smiling.

His eyebrows are drawn together in the middle and he’s biting on the side of his bottom lip while he works, dabbing something cold onto my skin.

I lift my head an inch for a better view, and his hands still.

“Baz,” he says, looking up at my face.

I grunt. Charming.

“You’re awake.”

It’s an effort to clear my throat enough to grate out, “Well observed, Snow.”

He purses his mouth, then opens it as if to say something, but closes it again and goes back to poking at my lower abdomen with something that smells heavily of antiseptic and Bunce’s magic.

So, we’re still not talking then.

Not that we specifically _aren’t_ speaking to each other. It’s just that we’ve been busy since we returned from America. We’re on call at the drop of a hat—all four of us, even Agatha’s become reluctantly involved—to go running off to Watford whenever the next wave of monsters shows up, and then we’re all so knackered in between that it’s curry and telly and no energy for conversation.

And also, I’m afraid of what Snow will say to me if I bring up the subject of us. I think _he’s_ tried bringing it up himself more than once, but every time he ends up closing his eyes, and his mouth, and looking away.

Maybe he’s afraid too. But of what? Of losing me? Or of the awkwardness of pointing out that I’ve already overstayed my welcome? Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.

I watch him while he works. His wings are free, held taut behind him, tense and out of the way. They’re lovely. Everything about him is lovely. I don’t know how much longer I can stay conscious. I think there _was_ venom in the claw that raked across my chest. I can feel the fire sinking into my skin, my muscles, my bones. I can feel myself slipping. The world is growing black around the edges.

_I’m in Simon’s bed. This is just where I’ve wanted to be for months. He’s leaning over me._

I shake my head and it clears, just a little. I am where I’ve wanted to be, but not like this.

“Hey there, it’s okay. You’re okay now.” Simon’s thumb is on my face, wiping a tear off of my cheek.

_I’m lying in Simon’s bed and he’s bending over me. I’m crying. Why am I crying?_

It must be, I think, because I’m actually not okay. I want to tell him that. I want to tell him to stop working down where I can barely see him and stay up here with me. I need to tell him to stay. But now I can’t get my voice to work.

Simon hears me trying to clear my throat.

“Are you thirsty?”

I nod.

“You lost a lot of blood. I wonder— wait here a minute.”

As if I could go anywhere. As if I’d want to.

He’s gone for more than a minute. When he returns, he’s holding a mug with a straw in one hand and something blue in the other.

“I bought this a while ago,” he says, stepping towards the bed. His bed. I’m lying in it.

“It’s been in the freezer. It’s— sorry it’s not fresh. It’ll be better than nothing though.”

He holds the mug out to me and I take it, awkwardly, because I’m still lying down. And because my arms feel like lead weights.

He’s used the straw Fiona gave me, thank Crowley—the reusable one made of Icelandic unicorn horn (the endangered kind) that has _suck this, environmentalists_ engraved on the side. I murmur a quick spell and it changes shape so I can drink from the position I’m in, flat on my back. It’s blood—pig’s blood, by the taste—and a little bit clumpy from being warmed on the stove. It does make me feel a bit better. Clears my head, and also my throat.

When I finish, he takes the cup from me and sets the handful of blue on my chest.

It’s my mother’s scarf.

“What—?” I begin, my voice is a rough croak.

“It was in your pocket.”

“Oh.”

“What were you doing with it?” he asks.

“Must’ve still been there. From the trip.”

He cocks his head and squints at me, but doesn’t say anything.

He’s right to be suspicious. Of course it wasn’t still there from the trip. I had it with me because I was lonely. Fighting daily by Snow’s side and feeling like little more than an accomplice—a conveniently fast and deadly sidekick—while everything between us hovers precariously unresolved hasn’t done anything good for my self esteem.

“Well, it was covered in blood,” Simon says.

I lift the scarf gingerly with one hand. It isn’t covered in blood now. It’s spotless.

“Did Bunce use a spell?” I ask.

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Cleaned it myself. By hand.”

“That must have taken hours. This is silk.”

He shrugs.

I flex my empty hand, lying beside me on the bed, I hope he understands it’s an invitation.

Snow looks at my hand, then away.

“I’m done patching you up. I’ll leave you to rest."

I whimper. I don’t mean to, but once the sound escapes me I hope he’ll hear it and know he needs to come back. He needs to stay with me.

He shuts off the light as he walks out the door.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Or disappointed.

I’m ashamed to admit that I’m both. The fog is back in my head and I think I’m about to fall asleep. Or perhaps I’m passing out again. There might have been venom in that gryphon’s claw.

When I come to, Simon’s there, sitting in a chair pulled up to the side of the bed. I brace myself to sit up, but Simon’s already got his palm on my shoulder, gently holding me where I am, flat on his mattress.

“No you don’t. You shouldn’t move for a while,” his voice is soft, tender, like it’s just the two of us alone in the world having a private moment. Or, I suppose, like he’s in a sick room. That’s what it is; it’s not tender, it’s a sick room. I can’t roll my eyes properly. They’re still crusted with my blood. Simon sees me trying though, and leaves the room again. All I want is for him to stay by my side, and I keep getting it wrong.

But he’s back in less than a minute with a damp flannel. He wipes it gently across my eyes. It’s warm. He keeps on wiping until the dry, crusty feeling is gone and I can move my eyes properly again.

“There you go, you miserable sod, you can roll your eyes at me now.”

I use my new freedom of motion to side-eye him from where I’m lying, without moving my head. He’s halfway to the door again, lip twitched up at the corner, blood-covered flannel in hand.

“I’ll go wash up,” he says, waving the flannel in the general direction of the kitchen.

“Don’t,” I say.

He hesitates. He’s at the door now, one foot already out.

With a supreme effort I lift my whole arm up off the mattress and reach out to him. I put everything I have into it.

I must have finally gotten it right because he walks back over to the bed and takes my hand in his. His thumb rubs gently across my knuckles once, back and forth.

I wait for him to sit down beside me again. To stay. He doesn’t.

Instead he squeezes my hand, tightly, then says, “I’ve got cleaning up to do, and you’re fine now.”

I make a low, objecting sound in the back of my throat.

“Or, you will be. You don’t need me in here hovering over you.”

I do.

He waves the flannel again, repeats, “I’ve got cleaning up to do,” and turns his back on me before striding out the door.

As I drift in and out of consciousness I wonder if the pain in my chest is venom—I think that gryphon was venomous—or if it’s my heart breaking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't leave everyone so sad!

BAZ

I’m awake. My head feels clearer than it did last night, less of a haze between me and the rest of the world. My body, on the other hand, feels worse. The whole thing aches and I’m slightly nauseous. I wonder why for a moment, until I remember that I was poisoned yesterday. And that my boyfriend couldn’t bear to stay in the room with me while I was on the verge of death. Daylight is glowing through my eyelids. It must be morning. Or afternoon. I’ve no idea how long I slept. I desperately want to open my eyes and see Snow sitting at my bedside like he was last night. But I leave them closed, unsure if I can handle the sight of an empty chair.

The doorknob twists and the bottom of the door whiffles across the carpet as it’s slowly pushed open. Is he coming to check on me? Or maybe Doctor Wellbelove is here?

A quiet voice says, “Simon?”

It’s Bunce.

I open my eyes and tilt my head on the pillow just enough to see her. She looks a mess. She’s in the same clothes she was wearing yesterday; I can smell the dried blood from here—hers and Simon’s mingling, and something else’s too. Her hair looks like it was styled by a jet turbine.

I shove myself up onto my elbows and my head rises a few inches off the bed. That’s enough movement to make it feel swooshy and cloudy on the inside again.

“He’s not here,” I grate out. My voice is low. Lower than usual. Dry. It sounds all used up.

"Well, where is he then?” Penelope puts her hands on her hips, voice louder now she knows I’m awake. “I’ve looked through the rest of the flat already. I assumed he’d be in here with you, honestly, but I didn’t want to wake you unless I had to.”

She looks put out.

I’m worried.

I try to push myself up further and my head swims until I close my eyes and slump back onto the bed.

“No you don’t, Basilton,” she says. “You stay put. I’ll go have another look round for him.”

I try to stop thinking and let myself drift off like I did last night. It's easier being unconscious than dwelling on my broken relationship. I’ve been telling myself for days that we hadn’t been talking or spending quality time together because of the emergency, the daily skirmishing at Watford, the exhaustion. But last night made everything crystal clear; even if I’m on death’s door, he can’t be bothered to stick around.

Unfortunately I’m too clear-headed today to be able to drift in and out. I'm awake whether I like it or not. After a few minutes the silence in the flat is broken by voices. Penelope’s haranguing and Simon’s, low and beligerant, in reply. I wait for him—or them—to come back into Simon’s room, where I’m lying on his bed too weak to get up. But there’s only more talking followed by clanging from the kitchen. When the clanging stops, the sound of a chair scraping out and in.

Then Penelope pops her head around the door again.

“I found him passed out on the floor behind the sofa.” 

She doesn’t seem worried, so I assume she means asleep, not _passed out_ passed out. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that so I ask what’s really on my mind.“Why didn’t he stay with me last night?” (Then I curse myself for asking. That question comes dangerously close to sharing my feelings.)

“I’ve no idea, Baz,” she says. “I used up the last of my energy making the ointment for you and putting his arm back together—he was bitching and moaning that he needed to be in good enough shape to tend to you and wouldn’t wait for Dr. Wellbelove—then I went to bed. I was knackered. Simon was too, but it looks like the bloody idiot stayed up all night cleaning anyway.

He really _was_ cleaning up?

“Anyway, I’ve made him a fry-up and told him he has to eat it before he can leave the kitchen. I don’t think he slept more than a couple of hours and he was so dizzy when I found him he could barely stand, he lost _that_ much blood yesterday. I’m still pretty tapped out magickly myself, but I did as much of a blood replenishment spell as I could manage. He should be in much better shape than he was last night.”

As if she’s summoned him, Snow’s there, in the door behind her.

“Hey,” he says.

No words come out when I open my mouth to speak, so I nod.

He steps into the room, eyes roving over my body. Probably checking his handywork from last night. I’m pitiful enough that I hope he comes closer, checks it out in person, even though I’ve seen the writing on the wall of our relationship and I know there’s no point.

He takes a step in my direction, then stops cold, glaring at Penelope.

“Penny! You’ve got blood _all_ over your shirt. Did you sleep in that?”

“Proper attire wasn’t really top of my agenda last night, Simon.” She huffs.

“Out of it. Now.” He holds his hand out, apparently expecting Bunce to strip on the spot. She gives him a look and pulls her t-shirt off over hear head. Thank Morgana her bra doesn’t seem to have any blood on it.

Simon tries to take the shirt from her hand.

“Not so fast there,” Bunce says.

“Give it over, Pen. I need to go wash it.” He looks meaningfully, and not at all subtly, at me.

“Nonsense,” she replies. You’re dead on your feet. You go lie down and have a proper rest like you should have done hours ago.” She gives him a shove on the shoulder before exiting the room.

Simon stands there for a moment, as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. In the light of day—and with less manticore venom in my system—I’m able to have a better look at him than I got last night. He looks absolutely all in.

He looks into my eyes and I stare back. The moment stretches. When he turns towards the door I close my eyes. So I can pretend he glances back tenderly before he walks out on me again.

The door clicks shut. A tear slides from the corner of my eye down my cheek, soaking into the pillowcase. Then, the bed dips and a warm body is clambering over me to get to the empty space between me and the wall.

“Why were you sleeping on the floor?” I ask, as Simon settles in behind me. Even though I don’t really want to know why he skipped out on the available bed space last night.

“Hid behind the sofa,” he mumbles. “She got up to use the loo in the middle of the night and threatened to cast **lay your weary had to rest** on me if I didn’t stop cleaning by the time she was done. But there was so much blood, Baz. _So_ much. It would have been awful for you if you’d woken up to that. Guess I fell asleep there.” He gives a soft laugh as he brings a hand round to my forehead and smooths my hair back. I hum, and he does it again. Suddenly I wish we were facing each other but when I try to roll over it turns out to be more effort than I can manage. All I end up doing is pressing my back more firmly into his chest.

“Baz,” he says. “I was so worried.” He sounds like he’s halfway gone already. He pulls his hand out of my hair and slings his whole arm over my chest—the warm weight of it making my wound sting a bit (I don’t mind)—and buries his face in my neck. When he speaks again his words are slurring with sleep. “M'glad yer feeling bett’r.”

I am.


End file.
